


Lights

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I heard you’re pretty good with your bare hands.” While Fitz struggles to breathe for that quick moment, his blood running much too hot, Jemma hides another secret behind her smile. “Or at least, that’s what Skye tells me.” AU: Fitz and Jemma go out for drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a lovely AU picspam on Tumblr.

If he’s honest, Fitz is probably brooding.

He’s nursing a half-empty bottle of beer between his fingers, the icy condensation pooling against his skin. He swirls the drink around several times before throwing back another gulp. As the alcohol burns through his insides, Fitz sighs against the dim lighting and steady thud of the speakers. If it wasn’t for Skye and her bloody persuasion – but he’s here now. He’s surrounded by people he vaguely knows and music much too loud, bound by obligation to the birthday girl to stick around until she’s adequately drunk.

Fitz glances over to the bar; Skye giggles into her martini, twirling a lock of hair around her finger and grinning at the guy – Warren? – leaning into her. Fitz doesn’t expect it’ll take too long for Skye to sauntering towards the dance floor, and he knows that’s his cue for freedom.

Meanwhile, he sighs and downs some more beer, absently wondering if he’d be allowed to build a truly impressive bottle tower.

“You seem to be thoroughly entertained.” Fitz glances up and pauses; because of the faulty lighting, the shadows dress her face, but it’s her eyes that capture his attention – they are brighter than the string of lights hanging on the walls and they hold a gentle curiosity that makes his chest ache.

“Not quite,” he says, lowering his beer and nudging the chair beside him. She smiles and sits, her own beer still quite full. “You a friend of Skye’s?”

He knows immediately that her smile holds secrets; she licks her lips as they quirk slightly upwards, her full grin radiating her entire face until he’s sure she’s the embodiment of the sun. “Something like that,” she says and at Fitz’s eyebrow raise, she laughs. “Jemma.”

Fitz takes her offered hand and shakes it, letting her cool skin mingle with the warmth embracing him. He swallows before answering. “Fitz,” he says before dropping her hand. Biting his lip, he adjusts his hat before letting his hand absently rub the back of his neck. “Skye’s in a class of mine.”

“Oh, you’re _that_ Fitz,” says Jemma, eyes wide. “You used the grant money last semester to design and build the new receiver in the campus offices – “

Fitz tries not to grin, but her excitement is contagious, seeping from her fingers and itching dangerously close to his thigh. “Yeah, that was me – but I didn’t really _build_ it, I just – supervised.”

“Supervised, huh?” she says, her knees brushing against his legs now. Jemma leans forward and Fitz stares back straight at her eyes, because the lace adorning her neckline is quite low. “I heard you’re pretty good with your bare hands.” While Fitz struggles to breathe for that quick moment, his blood running much too hot, Jemma hides another secret behind her smile. “Or at least, that’s what Skye tells me.”

And even though it’s difficult to think terribly clearly – Jemma is too gorgeous and too close and it’s too damn hot – he understands anyway. “So you’re _that_ Jemma. Jemma Simmons.” He narrows his eyes, because she’s pleased he recognizes her and if his hand accidently grazes her arm it’s definitely not his fault. “I hear you’re working on an adaptive vaccine for the flu.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Among other things,” she says, an elbow on the table and the other hand tapping against her bottle. It’s an uneven melody that harmonizes with the music blasting around them, but Fitz finds he understands her interpretation of the lyrics. “You want to talk a walk?” She glances back at the bar, and Fitz follows her gaze to find Skye laughing as she spins around, dancing to a self-composed rhythm.

Fitz grins, because it’s loud and hot and Jemma is cool, her breath tickling his arms. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

* * *

Summer nights are Jemma’s favorite; warm air tinged with light breezes that lift her hair around her shoulders, thin leather jackets hanging loosely over her arms, attractive men shaking out their curls with a small frown illuminated by strings of lights. It’s those nights that have Jemma biting away smiles and resisting the urge to twirl around.

They’re passing a nearby park, his smooth comments swirling in her laughter, when his hand inches towards hers. Running her teeth against her bottom lip, Jemma waits a moment before reaching. With fingers intertwined, they walk down the pebbled path, her flats scraping against the ground as the sleeve of his hoodie tickles her wrist. “You ever been to the roof of _Martin’s_ ,” she asks, nodding in the general direction of a local restaurant. Fitz frowns and shakes his head, absently swinging their arms between them. Jemma lets the swimming in her stomach die down just a little. “It’s gorgeous at night.”

Fitz glances upwards at the dark sky; there’s a tiny sliver of the moon peering out from beneath the tall branches and tiny speckles of the stars dancing between the leaves.  The corners of his lips twitching upwards, his fingers lightly squeeze hers. “I’ve seen prettier,” he says, that edge of lemon swirling in honeyed tea. Jemma rolls her eyes when he looks at her, blue eyes sparkling.

“Come on.” She drags him to the quaint two-story building; a large wooden _M,_ flecks of paint corroded away, hangs precariously off the top, but the bright _closed_ sign only flickers momentarily when Jemma ducks under a stairwell, pulling Fitz along with her. Her hand slips behind a loose plank on the wall and feeling across the damp wood, she pulls out a tiny silver key. Fitz grins.

The steps creak beneath their feet as they climb, Fitz radiating beside her, warmth spreading from his fingers. The door to the roof is shut tightly, but it swings open gently after the soft click of the lock. She refuses to look over at him; she imagines his wide eyes and small smile but she doesn’t wish to be disappointed.

“Wow,” says Fitz, and then she has to turn. Because he’s staring at the décor – wick benches, cotton blankets, dim strands of lights wrapped around plastic rods – Fitz doesn’t notice Jemma smile. He’s beautiful like that: shadows dressed across his shoulders but the reflections of the stars dancing across his face. He’s beautiful, really: and his complete obliviousness only makes her chest constrict.

“Beautiful, right?” she says, before she can really think about it. Fitz glances at her with a slightly raised eyebrow and Jemma quickly turns to the sky before her blush is visible. “And it’s so nice out.” She rubs her arms slowly, hoping to erase the goosebumps, but Fitz isn’t fooled.

“Let’s grab a blanket.” Pulling up a bench and gesturing for her to take a seat beside him, Fitz lays out a blanket across his lap and one around his shoulders. Jemma hesitates for a moment before letting the warmth in his eyes win the war in her gut. The caress of his calloused fingers across the back of her hand as he helps her into their cocoon is enough to verify her decision.

Jemma doesn’t believe in astrology or fate or anything of the kind; but sitting under the stars with the breeze twirling through her hair, Fitz’s arm wrapped around her and his lips beside her ear – in that moment, Jemma believes in magic. Because there is only magic in his eyes – his eyes seek hers with such intensity that she barely hesitates before letting her lips linger over the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t make any attempts to move – he lets her decide the pace, and that comforts her more than his hand rubbing circles on her lower back. “This is – “

“I know.”

And she supposes he really does: because then he runs a hand through her hair and shifts to face to skyline, where tiny people laugh and walk and cry. Jemma lays her head down on his shoulder and smiles, whispering secrets in the circles drawn on his hand in hers.

* * *

When Fitz awakens, there’s a crick in his neck and his arms feel heavy. The sun burns against his left cheek, but his right is cradled in Jemma’s arms. Slowly, the sun becomes less bright and the morning air cools around him.

“Jemma?” he whispers softly. His mouth tastes tangy, but she left an imprint on his mouth with her lips that still tingles. Jemma groans softly, shifting awkwardly, pulling her knees closer to her chest. “Jemma,” he says again, shaking her slightly – enough to pull his arm free from beneath her.

“Hmm,” she says, her half-awake sounds drowning under sleep. Fitz bites back a smile – as cute as appears, they’ve fallen asleep nursing a stolen key. But his fingers glide across her cheek and behind her ear without thought, and Jemma’s smile – pure and clear – is the verification he needs.

“Jemma, you need to wake up or else we may go to jail.”

Maybe unconsciously, Jemma stiffens. Fitz wants to laugh, but instead he gently removes the tangled blanket from around their legs. The sudden rush of cold air is her alarm; she straightens all at once, cracking her neck, and Fitz flinches for her. “Shit – “ she says, rubbing her neck and rolling her shoulders. Without thinking, he replaces her hands with his and massages away the tension.

“I think we can spare a few moments, right?” He’s probably wrong, but when Jemma leans back into his chest, he finds for once he doesn’t mind.

When the sun rises, the sky dances in yellows and reds, with orange highlights that reflect in Jemma’s bright eyes. The clouds are wispy that morning, but they curl around the sun like threads weaved together, and Fitz rests his chin on her shoulder. Jemma turns her head and her nose grazes his; her eyes flutter close for a moment before she’s staring straight through him. “I could really use an engineer to help with the details of a neurotoxin dispense system.”

It’s completely an inappropriate time for this conversation, and somehow that makes Fitz more at ease. “And if I say no?”

This smile sings of truths. “I’ll kiss you.”

“And if I say yes?” Because they both know he’ll say yes, their hands intertwined as if their minds necessitate a physical anchor to reality.

“I will ask you out on another date.”

Fitz stares back at her hard gaze; she’s challenging him with her small smile and unwavering eyes but it’s her unquenchable curiosity that captures him. So he leans closer, his forehead lightly pressed against hers. “Maybe.” Since his eyes are closed, he feels her forehead crunch into her grimace. Laughing, Fitz moves back slightly so his thumb can trace her jaw. “I do need a biochemist to help me invent a purpose for this device I’m designing.”

And when Jemma grins, Fitz lets her dictate the outcome. And she does – she kisses him, with lips and teeth, and when Fitz’s hand stretches across her ribs, her tongue joins as well. She tastes of morning and night, of the sunrise dressed in pink, and of magic sparks hidden in metal spheres. When they part, Jemma links her arm through his and stares back out at the sky.

If he’s honest, Fitz is probably dreaming.


End file.
